Triumphs
by lella7
Summary: Lord Voldemort reconsiders what he regards as his greatest triumphs. Written for Mrs Bella Riddle's Voldemort Competition on HPFC.


**A/N- Written for Mrs Bella Riddle's Voldemort Competition on HPFC. This is the first time i have ever written in Voldemort's point of view so please let me know what you think of it :)**

Triumphs

_The house stood proudly atop a hill, its condescending presence glaring down at the village below. It exuded a sense of power and control, but for all its arrogance it could do nothing to protect its inhabitants. They thought their status and influence kept them safe, but they were nothing compared to him and they would be punished for their hubris._

_A wave of cool satisfaction washed over Tom as he strode, slowly yet purposefully, up the winding path to the house. He was the one in control now and soon the unworthy scum, who had been such a dishonour to his greatness, would be powerless before his wand and utterly at his mercy._

_He had been waiting so long for this very moment and now everything was in place, time seemed to be moving too fast. He wanted to stop, to savour his moment of glorious vengeance, of writing the wrongs that had been done to him. But already he was at the gate and that lust for power drove him on._

_The gate, then the back door, swung open with ease as he lazily flicked his wand at them, as though they were acknowledging his greatness, beckoning him in._

_He climbed a spiral staircase that carried him up the spine of the building and found himself in an airy, wood-panelled hallway, the light of the setting sun glowing over polished surfaces and glinting off a silver picture frame that occupied a side table. Tom glanced coolly at the photograph, its still figures so lacking in the vibrancy of the wizarding photographs he had grown used to. The black and white faces of the family stared blankly out at him, and Tom's eyes were drawn to the boy in the centre, the boy who was his mirror image. He must have been around Tom's own age when the picture was taken._

_Fury built up in his chest. The likeness was unbearable; just the thought of sharing anything with such filth appalled him. He had already had to live sixteen years sharing that Muggle's name, but that he could dispose of, the idea of his appearance too being shared made him feel tainted, unclean. He wanted to hurl the picture against the wall and burn it, destroying the evidence of his connection to his father, but he had to remember what he had come here to do._

_Seizing control over his anger and reining it in, he set the picture frame back down where he had found it. Now was not the time for recklessness. He would leave no trace of his presence, merely claim the lives of the family he despised, watch the light disappear from their unworthy eyes, and then he would go, never to be connected with these killings, never to even be suspected by the wizarding world which knew nothing of his parentage. He had everything set up, and now all that was left to do was to claim his first blood._

_It was all too easy._

_Yet as he proceeded down the hallway he was stopped by a gentle tapping sound from behind him. That was not right. Confusion washed over him as his mind struggled to comprehend such a change in the familiar scene. He spun around to see a tall woman with hair in dark waves falling down her back, clutching the picture frame he had just abandoned and gazing down at it with puzzlement across her aristocratic, yet emaciated features._

_That was not right. She had not been there. He struggled to comprehend what was happening, but his mind felt hazy and he could only stare at this strange apparition._

_She looked up at him questioningly. "My lord?"_

Lord Voldemort's eyes snapped open and he found himself jolted sharply back to the darkened drawing room of Malfoy Manor, where he had been staying for the past few weeks. He was not usually one to reminisce overly about the scores of meaningless people he had killed, and yet he often found himself thinking back to that evening, in his dreams. It had been his first great success, a perfectly executed plan that had proved to him just how powerful he was. However, he had more pressing matters to occupy himself with at the moment.

Cursing himself for drifting off, he quickly levitated a few more logs onto the fire which looked in danger of flickering out, before he heard a gentle tapping on the door, which he assumed had been what had woke him up.

"My lord?" A woman's voice, soft and low, called to him and Voldemort felt a flash of annoyance at the disturbance.

He strode to the door and opened it sharply.

"Bellatrix, I fail to see what cause you have to disturb me," he said irritably, and it pleased him to see that his servant actually jumped backwards a little in fear at his obvious ire.

Bellatrix dropped her head submissively.

"I wished to speak to you about the plans for the attack on the Jones family, master."

"Aah, I see," Voldemort said with a cruel smirk. Bellatrix mistook this as permission to speak, but as soon as she opened her mouth, he cut her off.

"If I had wanted your input on this matter, I would have put you in charge of the attack, but as I learnt from the events at the Ministry, I cannot trust you to carry out the simplest of tasks."

He took pleasure in the effect the words had on her; the wounded look his words could produce. She seemed about to argue for a moment, but thought better of it. She knew better than that. Instead she meekly murmured an apology for disturbing him and left, her eyes fixed on the floor.

It had been over a year since the fiasco at the Ministry, and yet his anger at those who had let him down was still ever-present. His disappointment at losing the prophecy was not something that could be easily fixed and nor would his followers be able to beg for his forgiveness this time.

He had long since accepted that Bellatrix was hardly to blame for the failure. Ultimately it had been Lucius' mistakes and poor planning which had cost him the victory, for which he would, of course, be punished.

Yet Bella was all he could hope for in a servant; immensely loyal and powerful once he had trained her, a great triumph to his name. He had almost been proud of her. He had been wrong. Despite all of that she had not been any use to him at the Ministry.

It was apt that she had appeared in that particular dream. The murder of his Riddle ancestors was just another inconsequential thing he had foolishly taken pride in. It did not matter that he had murdered a few worthless Muggles or trained a servant who was of no use to him when he needed her to be. At least, these matters would be inconsequential very soon, when he had seized power and had far greater triumphs to his name.

That would be something to be truly proud of.


End file.
